


and suddenly, i need you

by thompsborn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, descriptions of intense pain, goblin!norman, peter and harry kiss in the rain tho, so thats p cool, venom!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24640585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsborn/pseuds/thompsborn
Summary: Norman’s smile is sharper now. It lifts at the ends of his lips and makes his teeth glint, looking all too sharp, eyes almost darker and menacing. Harry feels uneasy and he can’t pin down why. Reasonably, there should be no reason to feel that way. It’s just a smile. It should mean nothing.Until he realizes how much a smile should matter, until he realizes that he should never doubt the word of Peter Parker. Until he realizes that this isn’t his father anymore.
Relationships: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 86





	and suddenly, i need you

**Author's Note:**

> this doesnt flow very well but oh well
> 
> this is a fill for the kissing prompt  
> place: rain  
> reason: need
> 
> hopefully it isn't completely shit

Peter warns him, in the back alley of a gala that they’re both dressed up for. His hand is wrapped around Harry’s wrist and both of their suits are slightly crumpled and askew from Harry getting mad and shoving at Peter and Peter pushing him back with pleading eyes. “You need to listen to me,” he says, begs, looks moments away from dropping to his knees and clasping his hands together in a prayer. “I know it sounds crazy, and I—I’m sorry, I’m sorry I have to drop this on you, but he’s planning—he’s planning bad things, Harry, and he’s going to use you for them, and I’m trying to find out how to stop him but—”

“He’s my _father,_ Peter,” Harry spits, eyes narrowed down into a furious glare, ripping his arm from Peter’s grip. “I know he isn’t the best dad out there, but he would—he would _never_ do that.”

“I’ve seen some of his plans,” Peter insists, tears shining in his eyes. “I’ve seen them, and I’ve heard him talk about them, and I know it’s not what you want to hear, but that isn’t your dad anymore. The serum has taken over him, Harry, and whatever’s left is—it’s _ruthless_ and _deadly_ and it’s going to get you hurt!”

Harry shakes his head, runs both his hands through his hair and tugs, all the gel and products keeping the brown locks taming only serving to help random strands stick up in random places. “No,” he says, because it isn’t possible—it can’t be possible. Norman Osborn is distant and neglectful, but he has never raised a hand towards Harry, has never put his son in danger. Kept him at an arms length, sure, made Harry question if his father ever loved him, yeah, but actually, physically harm him?

No. Not in a million years.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he decides, taking a step away from Peter Parker, the guy he thought was his best friend, the guy who Harry always thought understood him better than anyone else ever would or ever could. Not just his best friend, but the guy he’s had a crush on for years, was hoping to make a move on _tonight._ He takes another step back when Peter tries to reach out, clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “You’re full of shit, Peter Parker. You think I don’t know that all your precious Mister Stark talks about is how much he doesn’t trust my father? You think I can’t tell that Iron Man himself has been twisting your idea of what my family is? I’m not stupid, alright? Just—go fuck yourself.”

“Harry—”

Before he can hear whatever it is that Peter has to say, Harry turns around and walks away.

Norman’s smile looks a little sharper than usual.

He doesn’t smile often—Harry knows this, has known it since he was old enough to process patterns, remembers asking his mother why daddy never looked happy, can vividly picture the way she had held his hand and told him that his daddy was a very serious man who didn’t know how to show his emotions all that well, but she assured him that, even if he doesn’t show it, his daddy loved him very much and was so, so happy to have a son as wonderful as Harry was. Still, when Norman does smile, whether it be forced or genuine, it’s always fairly small—a twitch of the lips with a bow of his head and a slightly noticeable twinkle in his eyes. Harry cherishes seeing his father smile.

But it’s different now.

Maybe he’s just paranoid—Peter Parker isn’t one to lie, after all, but Harry refuses to believe what it was that he was saying. Still, he watches his father a bit closer, tries not to look suspicious when he does so. He wants to prove to himself that everything Peter said was bullshit. Norman Osborn has never been the world’s best dad, especially after his mother died when he was a kid, but hurting him? Using him?

It’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely absurd and—

And Norman’s smile is sharper now. It lifts at the ends of his lips and makes his teeth glint, looking all too sharp, eyes almost darker and menacing. Harry feels uneasy and he can’t pin down why. Reasonably, there should be no reason to feel that way. It’s just a smile. It should mean nothing.

Until he realizes how much a smile should matter, until he realizes that he should never doubt the word of Peter Parker. Until he realizes that this isn’t his father anymore.

He can feel the way it sinks into his skin, watches in horror as the black goo—symbiote, apparently, according to what Norman said through the glass, ignoring the way that Harry had been pounding against it and begging to be let out—sludged it’s way across the floor, almost timid and unsure as it cornered Harry in the cage, latches onto his bare hands and climbs up his arms and then disappears.

It’s like a chill that runs down his spine and floods his veins with ice, and he doesn’t notice that he’s fallen to his knees until he feels the shockwaves that send a sudden pain up and down his legs. Something squeezes his lungs until he’s gasping for air and it burns like he’s being set on fire from the inside out, and when he looks up, teary eyed and experiencing an agony that he’s never felt anything like before, he finds the emotionless eyes of his father staring at him in _disappointment._

Harry wants to plead, opens his mouth to beg and beg for—for mercy, for something, but when he parts his lips, all that comes out is a wheeze as he tries to catch his breath. Norman—Not Norman, apparently, but something that looks just like him—doesn’t even flinch as he watches his son fall to his side. He merely sighs and looks away, says, “He’s just like the others. Useless.”

And then Norman, and his flock of scientists, leave Harry there.

He thinks he’s going to die.

It hurts too much not to die, he figures—there’s not way that he can feel like this, like he’s being torn apart from the inside, visciously and violently, and live to tell the tale. But, whenever he thinks he might pass out from the pain, it seems to edge away, just enough to keep him conscious, to keep him twisting and wriggling and sobbing on the floor. He waits for the end. For it to stop.

It does stop, after a good ten minutes of agony. But he doesn’t die.

He gets up, and, not knowing what else to do, he finds the only person he can really trust.

Peter finds him before he can find Peter.

“Harry,” he says, relief to his voice as he jogs down the sidewalk, hand reaching out to lightly grab Harry by the elbow and turn him around. “Hey, I’ve been trying to call you, and—shit—”

He must look like a mess, red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks and mussed up hair that is only just starting to flatten because of the drizzle of rain that’s beginning to fall from the clouds. There’s something fundamentally wrong with him, with whatever happened to him—he can still feel that black mass weighing him down in ways he doesn’t understand, like it’s inside of him, and, he realizes suddenly, that it is. It’s inside of him, whatever it is, and it almost killed him and his father didn’t fucking care.

Peter’s features crumple when he sees Harry’s lower lip begin to wobble, reaches forward and pulls Harry into a secure embrace. “I’m sorry,” he says, whispers it into Harry’s hair and almost curls around him protectively. “I don’t—I don’t know what he did, I wasn’t able to found out, other than the fact that he was planning to use you for whatever it was, but—but I’m so sorry, Harry. I tried to stop him in time.”

“He—” Harry can’t choke it out. He wants to, wants to explain what happened and hope that Peter can figure it out, but the words are stuck in the back of his throat and he’s too busy clutching onto Peter like he’s a lifeline, fingers twisting into the material of his sweatshirt and clinging on with everything he has.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter says again. Harry is trembling in his arms, feel like he’s moments away from falling apart. Peter’s voice breaks. “I’m so sorry. God, I’m—I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t stop it in time. I—”

Harry shakes his head and tucks his nose into the underside of Peter’s jaw and feels something within him purr at the feeling of safety that envelopes him. _Good,_ something within him whispers—a voice that is not his own, but seems to resonate within him in a way that no thought he’s ever had has before. _He is good._

For a moment, he almost laughs—of course Peter is good. Peter has always been good. There are very few genuinely good things in the world, even less genuinely good people, and Harry’s done nothing to deserve any of it, but still, when he presses closer, Peter hugs him tighter, rocks them from right to left in small sways and murmurs apologies and reassurance into Harry’s ear and promises that he’ll make it okay, like any of this—the world, anything—is under his control. Peter is more than good, and Harry didn’t listen to him when all Peter was trying to do was keep him safe.

“I should’ve—” Harry stops, sucks in an uneven breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “Should’ve listened to you. That wasn’t—that’s not him, it’s not—it’s not my dad, and he—he—it—”

 _Shh,_ that voice within him says, while Peter reassures him that he’s going to be alright. Harry doesn’t know what to feel about this, doesn’t know how to react, but he only hears truth when the voice tells him, _Someone who loves you will fight forever to keep you safe. Trust us. He will make it okay._

It almost echoes within him. _Trust Peter._ He does trust Peter. There’s never been a day in his life that he didn’t trust Peter, and yet it feels different, the way this voice repeats this to him, like it’s brand new information, like it’s something Harry hadn’t done before. _Trust Peter. He will keep you safe. Trust Peter. He will never let you hurt again. Trust Peter. You love him. We love him. Trust him, trust him, trust him._

The rain is still falling—harder, now, as Harry pulls back and looks at Peter and knows that it’s true. He loves Peter. He’s always loved Peter, but he never thought—never admitted—that it was like this. He knew he had a crush, but he never thought that the love he felt was more than most people love their friend. This is so much more than that, though, and this… the symbiote, or whatever it is, seems to be able to feel what Harry feels, seems to be able to amplify it by chanting it in the back of Harry’s head.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks, pain and worry and sorrow all etched into his features like they belong there, like that’s the three basics of who he is, and it makes Harry ache. Peter cares too much, always has. He cares so much that it hurts him and he always tries to care more despite the pain.

Harry swallows the lump in his throat and _forces_ his lungs to expand.

“That’s a stupid question,” Peter murmurs, shaking his head. “Of course you aren’t okay. I just—what did he do? Where is he? I don’t—I can call Tony, and—and we can stop him. We can stop him, Harry.”

And Harry knows that should be the priority—knows that his father is bound to return to that lab, expecting to find Harry’s corpse, and will not hesitate to start tracking him down the second he realizes that Harry is alive and connected with the symbiote successfully—but he can’t bring himself to care as his chest swells with affection, with adoration, as he glances between Peter’s eyes and sees how much there is to see in the swirls of brown and gold. He loves Peter. He really, truly loves him, and he can’t explain why—maybe it’s the enhancement of having the symbiote repeat it to him, over and over and over again, making it seem louder and prominent than ever before—but he needs Peter to know.

Hands moving over, around Peter’s hips and up, up, until he’s cupping Peter’s face in his palms delicately, fingers shaking and breath still a little heavy. Peter looks confused and unsure and wide eyed and wonderful, and Harry loves him. Harry loves him. God, does Harry love him.

“Tell me not to do it,” Harry says, whispers it, really, because the only thing that could stop him is Peter himself, and if this isn’t something that Peter wants, then he needs to be stopped now.

Peter parts his lips, hesitates, uncertainly rests his hands upon Harry’s waist, and murmurs, “I don’t… I don’t think you should. You’re upset, Harry. You might—might… regret it, later, you know?”

But Harry shakes his head, moves in, just until their noses brush. “Tell me you don’t want me to.”

All Peter responds with is a hushed, “I can’t tell you that.”

And that’s all Harry needs to hear.

He surges forward because, suddenly, he _needs_ this—needs to feel Peter, needs to know that Peter is here, that Peter cares for him the same way that he cares. Something within him—the symbiote, maybe, or just his heart, thundering in his chest— _roars_ in some kind of relieved ecstasy when he presses his lips to Peter’s, when he feels the rumble of Peter’s chest against his own as he makes a little noise that is absolutely lovely to hear. This is it—love, real love. The kind of love that would never intentionally cause hurt, cause pain. The kind of love that soothes wounds and eases tension and creates joy.

Harry may have loved his mother, maybe even loved his father, too, at some point in time, but this so different from that. Lightyears away, really. Nothing comes close to this, and he’s been too afraid to indulge in it, too afraid to make a move, but that that fear is no where to be found, swallowed by the symbiote—the same symbiote that seems to be purring within him once again, feeling the same warmth and safety that settles over Harry like a blanket. This might be the first time it’s ever felt safe, if the way it seems to melt in Harry’s chest and warm him from the inside says anything. It’s relishing in it.

Harry is, too.

He tilts his head and doesn’t feel cold despite the droplets of rain soaking into his clothes and sticking his hair to his forehead, dampening his palms where they’re will cradling Peter’s face, deepens the kiss because he wants to, he _needs_ to. Peter is quick to respond, lets Harry deepen the kiss and presses closer against him and, suddenly, he pulls away and Harry has to swallow the _whine_ that tries to escape him.

“Why are you—” Peter stops, rests his forehead against Harry’s and looks almost afraid. “Why are you kissing me? You never—I’ve tried to say something before, and you never seemed interested, and… and I don’t know what changed, but something did. Something changed. What _happened,_ Harry?”

Harry brushes fingertips along Peter’s lower lip. “I don’t know if you would believe me.”

Peter’s brows furrow together. “Of course I’d believe you. I’ll always believe you, Harry. Always.”

“I—” Harry falters, wonders why he isn’t freaking out about this the way he knows he should be, finds himself looking at Peter’s lips again, glimmering with what could be rain or spit or some combination of the two. “Can I tell you later? I don’t—I just want to—”

He leans in again, harsh and biting but filled with that same love growing in his chest.

Peter doesn’t pull back, doesn’t lean away. He just returns the kiss with every bit of enthusiasm that Harry gives it and seems eager to tangle his fingers in Harry’s hair and pull him even closer.

The symbiote purrs louder, happier, beyond content.

Harry decides that he can worry about that later, too.


End file.
